Two Words, Ten Letters
by dorothywrites
Summary: Mpreg. John hasn't been feeling well. He thought it was the flu coming on, but a sign on the bathroom door at the pub has him questioning his own diagnosis. And how on earth is he supposed to break the news to the baby's father? Angst/fluff.
1. Two Words, Ten Letters

Written for this prompt on the Sherlock BBC kink meme:_ In a universe where men can get pregnant, one of our fine gentlemen goes out for a drink and sees a sign warning against drinking while pregnant. He takes a second to think about it-almost shrugs it off-and then realizes that he is actually pregnant. Bonus for angst and fluff._

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><p>He had a growing headache and there was a dull pain at the base of his back, both of which John Watson attributed to chasing around his raving lunatic flatmate who was in turn tracking a serial killer through London. He had a bit of a bug-probably coming down with the flu, which was going to be vastly inconvenient, since he had always managed to keep his immune system up, for Sherlock's sake.<p>

For one thing, he couldn't just let Sherlock Holmes go running off in the middle of the night with three nicotine patches per arm and a terrible idea. And second: He didn't know what Sherlock's immune system was like. All the bacteria he grew in the flat probably meant he'd be indestructible against biological warfare, but the common cold could be deadly against someone with nutrition like Sherlock's.

He knew he was just worrying about nothing. So he'd felt a bit nauseous that morning. No need to go running to Barts.

"Oi, earth to John Watson," Lestrade said, waving a half-empty pint in front of him. The amber liquid sloshed against the sides, what's left of the foam clinging and then seeping down.

"Sorry." John shook himself out of his worries. He didn't feel terrible; maybe his flu worries were far-fetched. It was entirely possible that the detective inspector had been right: All he needed was a night away from Sherlock and the flat and the _deductions_.

"You look on the verge of a wobbly. Everything all right?" Greg sipped his beer. "You've only had one pint. You can't possibly be anywhere near sloshed enough for tears."

"Do I?" John asked. He felt fine in the face. Couldn't think of any reason for his eyes to be as glassy as Greg implied. "Am I flushed?" he asked, touching the pads of his fingers to his cheeks. "I don't fancy myself getting the flu, but 'tis the season."

Greg put down his drink and tilted his head, frowning. "No, I don't think you look pinker than usual. Could just be the light. D'you feel sick? We can head out, though I'm sure Sherlock will just take the opportunity to ask you for vomit samples."

The idea itself made John's stomach turn and he had to swallow down the nervous laugh that tried to bubble out of him. It unnerved him that he couldn't tell whether Greg was being serious or joking. It was just as likely that the silver-haired man didn't even know himself.

"If you'll excuse me...?" John thumbed over his shoulder as he pushed out his chair, indicating the loo in the back corner of the pub.

Greg nodded and waved him away.

John didn't feel sick outside of a faint swirling in his stomach, but he wanted to get away from the assault on his senses that the pub was increasing with each moment. The smells-had everyone around him put on cologne and perfume this evening?-and the increasing noise levels as the pub got more crowded were making his headache worse. Yet there was a part of him that would feel guilty for not seeing a calm evening through, especially when he didn't know when the opportunity for another would arise.

He pushed open the door to the loo, but before it even had time to close behind him, he had backed out and stood in front of it, practically turned to stone as the sign posted just below the little male icon caught his attention for the first time.

_GOVERNMENT WARNING: (1) According to the Surgeon General, men and women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects. (2) Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems._

Below the posting, it reminded the pub patrons to drink responsibly.

John swallowed and read it again.

_Pregnant? No. I can't be pregnant._ He pushed the door open and leaned against it when it closed. _I'm just reacting terribly to a sign on a door. So what if I've never paid it mind before? There are no symptoms. None. Well, the nausea. But that's the flu. People get the flu. Everyone gets the flu. I don't get pregnant._

John turned the lock and slid down to sit on the tiled floor.

_Men and women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy._

The words echoed in his head and he tried to add up every strange feeling he'd had in the last few weeks. The situation was like something off of daytime telly-surely it was purely paranoia that was causing him to backtrack over the last month and a half.

_Stop,_ he told himself. _You're a doctor. Look at the symptoms objectively and make a diagnosis._

_But so many things could add to pregnancy that _aren't_ pregnancy,_ said a little voice in the back of his head. Ever the optimist.

_Nausea._ Check.

_Headaches._ Check, but he put that one at the bottom of the list, since he lived with Sherlock and had been suffering headaches since returning to London from the war.

_Spotting. Cramps._ John bit his lip. There'd been a bit of blood a week or so ago, but with his birth control, that wasn't uncommon. In fact, it was on the list of possible side effects on the side of the package.

_Missed menstruation_. He couldn't actually judge this one, since his birth control regulated him to bi-annual cycles.

So only one was actually a verifiable symptom that was different from the norm. That had to be a good sign. But the fact remained that the only ones left-fatigue, mood swings, mild back pain-were all parts of his everyday life living with Sherlock Holmes.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, no, this isn't happening._ He couldn't panic in the pub loo. That just wasn't an option. And still, there was no conclusive evidence that he _was_ pregnant. It was probably just panic.

_And maybe the panic is just the hormones rearranging themselves,_ responded the voice again, now taking on a clear tone of Not Optimism.

A knock on the door vibrated through the back of his head and John scrambled to his feet.

"John? You okay?" Greg sounded awkward on the other side of the door, like he certainly didn't want to hear any details if John wasn't perfectly all right.

"Fine," John choked out. He dusted off the back of his trousers and adjusted his jumper before pulling the door open with a feigned smile. "I... I think I'm going to head back to the flat," he said. "An early night should fix me up."

"I'll drive you."

"It's fine," John said quickly-too quickly. Greg turned back to him and studies him with a quizzical expression. "I-I'm going to make a stop at Tesco first. For medicine. Flu medicine. Paracetamol. The like." _Stop talking._

Greg shrugged, clearly counting John as a lost cause.

John couldn't help agreeing, just a little.

-o0o-

John had administered pregnancy tests to so many patients in his time at various clinics and hospitals. The general comment from most of them was always about how awkward it was to have to pee on the little end of the stick, or how difficulty it was to pee in the cup when they were doing a straight urine test. He'd always assumed it was just small talk, but now he knew it was actually very uncomfortable.

The bit of plastic in his hand was practically having a seizure as he tried to steady his shaking hands. Combined with the fact that he would actually have to aim at it while also ensuring that his urine fell into the toilet and this was turning into a project that would surely get Sherlock's attention if he wasn't careful.

_You have six minutes before he wonders where you went. Make the most of it._

John took a deep breath and tried not to think about what he was doing. He'd gone 36 years without ever having to take a pregnancy test-or having to wait on the other side of a door while a nervous partner took one-and he hoped he'd never have to take one again.

_This will all be over in three minutes._

He set the test on top of its box before tucking himself back into his jeans, closing the lid on the toilet, and sitting down to rest his head in his hands. It was stressful, of course, and there was always the chance of a false positive. He'd seen them all too often, especially with generic Tesco tests and the like. It was also much later in the day than was advisable to taking a pregnancy test-one was supposed to take the test first thing in the morning, when the hormones were most present.

But John, who often chided Sherlock for being impatient, couldn't wait until morning. He'd never sleep with the idea of an unplanned pregnancy ticking away at the back of his mind. Then again, he doubted he'd be able to sleep if the test came back as anything other than negative.

Up until now, the thoughts had only been about himself-about how he could have let this happen, about what he'd do if there really was a child, about all the choices he'd have to face if the test showed him that scarlet plus sign. And even then, his subconscious reassurances that it would come back negative hadn't even let him break the surface of "what if?" But now, as he rubbed at his temples with freshly-steadied hands, he let his mind flood with a whole new set of worries, unbidden.

There was Sherlock to worry about. A child couldn't be raised at Baker Street-John himself could barely inhabit the place without constant fear of tetanus. And Sherlock couldn't be expected to help care for a child that wouldn't be his, and a child would need constant supervision and care and, dear God, the nappies and messes and if Mrs. Hudson thought the smiley face was bad, she hadn't ever dealt with a two year old who'd found a set of markers.

_I can't handle two children,_ John thought, thinking to the overgrown six year old downstairs who was currently plucking petals off of roses and then subjecting them to different sorts of acid just to prove a point.

And what about the father?

John swallowed. He hadn't even let himself think of Mycroft since the shortest flash of memory at the pub when he'd been trying to pinpoint when this could've happened. Six weeks ago, the last time he'd seen Mycroft. The Goodbye for Now, as John had taken to calling it internally. The Intermission, as Mycroft had referred to it before leaving John at Baker Street that evening. The Good Riddance, You're Better Off, in Sherlock's own words.

_Oh God, no._ John swallowed, knowing that his three minutes were almost up and he was either going to be more relieved than he'd ever been in his entire life or he was going to spend the rest of the night wanting nothing more than to get smashed while simultaneously being denied the option because he was _responsible._

_That fucking sign is the reason I'm in this situation_, John thought. _It's going to be negative and I'm going to kick myself in the arse for being so paranoid._

Realistically, he knew it wasn't the sign's fault that he was currently sitting on the toilet and offering a myriad of things to whichever deity would listen-_Please, God, I swear I'll never ask Sherlock to do the shopping again. I'll never so much as imply he should raise a finger in the flat or do the washing or get the milk and I'll never complain again when he makes me trek across London in the snow so I can get him a pen_. It was his own fault insofar as anyone could take blame.

Mycroft's job was demanding, and was, while still a closely guarded secret, clearly more than just a "minor position" in the government. The man got less hours of sleep than Sherlock, which was something John had suspected to be impossible. It had been clear once their relationship started to progress past the six-month point that he was running himself ragged in his efforts to court John (his words) and maintain world peace (John's words). It had been John who suggested a break-a doctor's recommendation rather than a lover's. If he had allowed himself to be selfish (something he'd considered), he was sure he would have been spending his night away from Baker Street at Mycroft's posh flat in Chelsea.

_Can't raise a child there, either._ The thought was entirely unsolicited. He didn't need to think about any of those things. The test would be negative. He could go on with his life and pretend it never happened, because a negative test would mean nothing _had_ happened.

_But what if it's not?_ he asked himself, mostly looking for more reassurance from his subconscious that he was right. He had a feeling that he was being crazy; he hoped his worry was unwarranted.

Six and a half months hadn't been enough time for either himself or Mycroft to discuss long-term intentions. They had still been getting to know each other, after all. It had taken long enough to get around to the shagging-four (mildly torturous) months that had only seen a large handful of planned dates and impromptu (yet oddly romantic) kidnappings. Overlooking the fact that the elder Holmes's schedule had gotten in the way of their budding relationship would have been to ignore a tap-dancing elephant.

John didn't know if Mycroft ever planned to settle down and have children-or, if he did, if John was the kind of man he'd want something like that with. Unsurprisingly, John didn't think he could answer the same question. He'd been a bachelor for so long; had never enjoyed being tied down to one place, needed adventure to keep his blood pumping.

His heart hammered in his ears as he turned his wrist over to check his watch. It had been three and a half minutes since he'd taken the test, nearly five since he'd entered the bathroom. Sherlock would be curious soon if his experiment wasn't going well.

_Just look at it. It's a piece of plastic. It can't hurt you. Just look at it, dispose of it, and move on._

John took a deep breath and looked up for the first time since he set the test down, reaching for it with hands that had begun to tremble once more. When his fingers grasped the smooth plastic, he closed his eyes again, covering them with one hand as he drew the test toward himself.

He exhaled, barely a breath away from hyperventilation, and peeked through spread fingers.

John bit his lip so hard he felt the skin break. He was at once on the verge of crying and laughing hysterically.

_Positive._

_Fuck._

-o0o-

"John." Sherlock had knocked sharply three times now, each time saying John's name with increased annoyance.

"Bleeding Christ, Sherlock, just a minute," John said, still staring down at the test in his hand. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this. The sinking feeling in his stomach just seemed to get deeper and he would've sworn he felt something stirring in there, no matter how improbable.

He'd given news to men and women who had been happy to be pregnant, appalled, shocked, mortified to be pregnant. Never had he expected he would be on the other side of that giving himself his own questionable news.

If he ever thought about having a child, he didn't expect to carry it and he certainly didn't think he'd feel quite so ambiguous about it.

"John, if you don't open this door, I'm going to assume that you have been attacked and I will break it down."

"The only person threatening me right now is you, you great idiot," John said, trying to keep his voice steady. He shoved the test into the box and then the box into the bag, but he was reasonably certain that Sherlock would figure out what it was in less than three seconds if he carried it out. Hiding it was even less of an option, since the crinkle of the bag would likely tell Sherlock that John was hiding something.

He resorted to stuffing it in the back band of his pants and tugging down his jumper. He just wouldn't turn his back to Sherlock before he got to his room. Good plan? No, but it was the only one he had at the moment.

_Oh, God, how long can I possibly hide this from him?_

And he'd know. As soon as Sherlock knew, he'd know it was Mycroft's, and then Mycroft would know because Sherlock would send him some cryptic text and _oh God, everyone would know as soon as Sherlock knew._

John pulled the door open and looked up at Sherlock. He'd never done more praying than he had already today-not even when he'd been on the battlefield-but he hoped he had one left in him for the night: _Please, God, don't let him take one look at me and _know.

"Did you need something?" John asked, keeping his voice steady as Sherlock's eyes poured over him.

"Lestrade texted me. Lestrade always texts you." His eyes leveled on John's face and he crinkled his brow. "He said he thought you might be sick and that I should keep 'the racket' to a minimum and perhaps make you tea." Sherlock tilted his curly head slightly to one side, glancing past John into the bathroom, where there were clearly no signs of illness. "However, you appear to be quite capable and all right, so I was hoping you'd make the evening tea and perhaps give me a hand with my acidic rose petal experiment. I've already burned myself twice-" He held up his hand to show the marks. "I'm hoping you can keep an eye on things for me so I don't have-"

"Sherlock, much as I'd love to watch you burning up flowers, I've had a long day and I'd like to go to bed early. Greg was right-I'm not feeling right." _I may never feel right again._ John tried not to think too loudly lest the words be written on his face, but Sherlock kept staring at him, waiting for some sign of something more than fatigue.

"You don't _look_ ill," Sherlock noted.

"You can't see the flu this early, Sherlock," John said, sticking with his alibi to Greg. It was likely that the D.I. would see Sherlock the following morning and comment on the flu. That would work. That would keep Sherlock from being suspicious of John if he stayed in bed for days.

Well, the reality was that he'd probably be afforded one night and half a day before Sherlock bored of Sick John and decided he had to get better so he could come out and play.

_Oh, God, it'll be too dangerous. I can't be running around London in this state._

"You don't have the flu, John. What is it? You look like you've just been given a death sentence."

John wasn't sure he'd ever heard actual concern in Sherlock's voice before outside of a life-or-death situation.

"I'm just tired, Sherlock. Please let me by."

Sherlock set his mouth in a thin line before angling his body only just enough to let John squeeze by him. John was too tired, too emotionally distressed, to realize exactly what he'd done, which was to give Sherlock a half-second advantage.

The taller man had the Tesco bag in his hands and was tearing it open before John had time to fully turn around.

"Sherlock, damnit, give that _back,_ you insufferable _child_!" He reached for it desperately, nearly knocking Sherlock into the wall in his efforts. But he knew it was hopeless-as soon as the consulting detective had opened the bag, he'd seen the box inside, and he didn't need to see the surely-broken-by-now plastic bits to know exactly what the result was. "Fucking hell, Sherlock, this is _private_," he said, now ripping the bag from fingers that made no effort to hold it back.

Sherlock, for his part, looked slightly flabbergasted and didn't say a word as John stood and stared between him and the bag.

"You're..." The deep voice was a bit higher than usual and John wasn't sure he'd ever known Sherlock not to complete a sentence.

"I'm not talking about this with you, Sherlock," John warned. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I've barely had time to process it myself."

"And..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "And Mycroft?" His voice was set back in its proper octave.

"I haven't spoken to him recently. You know that. Sherlock, I need to go to bed. I can't-"

"But it is his. It's Mycroft's child."

John blanched at the very insinuation that it might not be. "Of course."

Sherlock relaxed visibly. The tension he released was one John hadn't even realized the other man had been holding since the revelation. Was Sherlock being... protective of his elder brother?

"Sherlock, you know there's been no one else-"

"I asked a question and you answered it, John, there is no need to proceed with further explanation."

"I'm just wondering who else you think could possibly-"

"You spend a lot of time with Lestrade. I wasn't sure-"

"God, Sherlock, no-"

"John. The conversation is over. You may go to bed now."

John swallowed and wrapped the bag back around itself until he held a rectangular box wrapped tightly in plastic. His reasoning for keeping it had been to ensure Sherlock wouldn't find it tucked away in the rubbish bin, but now that the cat was out of the figurative bag, he could dispose of it in whichever way he pleased.

After tossing it out, John headed to his room and crawled into bed, his skin still prickling with at least two dozen different sorts of emotions.

First and foremost, there was a baby. He slipped his hand under the t-shirt he wore to bed and pressed his fingers against the spot just above his belly button. His flesh hadn't begun to harden yet, but that would come in the immediate weeks. The skin under his palm was even, but he knew in the coming months, that would change as well. He'd swell as if he was a balloon being blown out from the inside.

John pressed his hand flat against his belly, imagining that his own pulse was the butterfly flutter of his unborn child. An hour ago, he had been having a pint with a mate, trying to keep his mind off of the man who was probably off somewhere in London being important and stopping full-on world wars. Now he had to figure out how he was going to tell that very man that he was going to be a father.

That brought its own unwelcome wave of smothering confusion. Would Mycroft insist on quietly remedying the situation? It was a possibility, though John wasn't sure it was one he could entertain for himself. If they had different views on how to carry on, that would certainly drive a wedge further between them. John could never afford to raise a child on his own, but he also couldn't imagine himself receiving a monthly check from Mycroft for essentials.

But could he imagine himself spending the rest of his life with Mycroft? That was equally uncertain.

Six and a half months did not a forever make.

John closed his eyes and remembered the first time Mycroft had approached him as anything more than his brother's long-suffering flatmate.

It had been mid-March and John had been alone in the flat when the bell had rung. It was so uncommon for anyone to actually _ring_ them. Lestrade walked in whenever he pleased, Sherlock usually barged up the stairs at a run, and they had few other visitors besides. He'd taken the kettle off the stove just short of a boil, just in case he was about to be carted off to pick up Sherlock from jail or do damage control at a crime scene.

Mycroft had been on the other side of the door, his closed umbrella tapping against the side of his foot despite a mid-afternoon drizzle.

"Ah, Dr. Watson, I was hoping you'd be in," he'd said with a pleasant smile. There had been an almost sheer layer of vulnerability in his face, but he was formal and cordial all the same.

John had politely informed him that Sherlock wasn't around-out seeing a man about two dozen fingers or something equally worrying-and offered Mycroft a cup of tea as they'd ascended the stairs to the flat.

The faint nervousness had never quite faded from Mycroft's features, even after John had agreed to lunch, then dinner, then dinner again, followed by a night of theatre, and then a few walks in parks when milder weather permitted. Each time they'd kissed, John had wondered if Mycroft expected him to change his mind about finding him attractive. It would have been off-putting if John didn't have the patience and understanding of a saint. However, there was one thing that tended to bother him above all else: The man always tasted like peppermint-as if he had brushed his teeth whenever John wasn't looking, just in case their lips were to meet.

After their first night together, John woke up next to the taller man to find him propped up on an elbow, studying him intently (and also sputtering apologies for doing so). John had taken the opportunity to kiss him properly, toothpaste and morning hygiene be damned. They'd made love again, but it was the rare, sleepy, early morning kind that had left them calm and sated without a care for what was on for the rest of the day.

The thing about Mycroft was that he was terribly insecure for a man of such political suave and power. John blamed a lot of it on his poor body image-which he in turn blamed on his lover's younger brother-and had set himself to turn the other man around and prove to him that he was desirable.

At the time of their break, John had believed he was finally making some headway.

John sighed and turned over in his bed. As he adjusted his pillow and pulled the covers up around himself, he couldn't ignore the thought that had plagued him each night for the last six weeks: Mycroft's bed was much more comfortable, and he had become used to it during the short-lived intimate side of their relationship.

Waking up with Mycroft meant getting up at three in the morning to a call from his emergency line more often than it meant having a late lie-in, but a quick peck on his forehead and a whispered apology were never an unwelcome side of their temporary domesticity. On one occasion, Mycroft had returned before dawn and crawled back into the bed, insinuating himself next to and around John so perfectly that the doctor had woken up wondering if he had dreamed up a national crisis.

_You can't raise a child in an environment like that_, John thought. _Not with him running off at the slightest war cry from Russia or North Korea or whomever we're fighting with tomorrow. And he won't give it up any more than Sherlock would give up deductions._

It would be a compromise, of course it would. But how much could you compromise with the British government?

-o0o-

Three days later, John had a terrible bout of cramps that seemed determined to unravel him from the inside out. Sherlock had put on his concerned face when John had nearly doubled over making tea, but it wasn't until John spent too long in the bathroom that Sherlock became insistent again.

"John." Sherlock knocked three times in quick succession before repeating John's name.

"Sherlock, I'm fine. Just a bit of a cramp. It's perfectly, ah, normal." But oh, for the love of God, it hurt. One of the perks of being on birth control meant that he didn't experience menstruation or the accompanying cramps. The slight spotting he was currently observing was also normal (generally not six weeks in, but he was telling himself it was fine-it was all fine, it had to be). The pain shouldn't have been quite so overwhelming, but it was the only vaguely worrying factor.

"John, open the door or I'm calling 999."

"God, Sherlock, I'm fine." John zipped his trousers and opened the door. "I'm a doctor. I can take care of myself and some cramps."

"I think we should go to the hospital."

"Absolutely not." Mycroft would know in an instant if John were to set foot inside a hospital. They may have been on a break, but it didn't mean that John and Sherlock had been downgraded in terms of security and observation. If anything, Mycroft had probably upped the security protocols so he'd be sure to get John back in one piece if the workload ever happened to decrease.

"John, you're pale as a sheet, you haven't been able to keep anything down all day, and your legs are shaking from the force of the cramping. Now, procreation isn't anywhere near my area of expertise, but I'm sure you're not meant to be this bad off so early on." Sherlock held John's coat out to him. "Come or I will call you an ambulance, which will only attract my brother's attention to the situation more quickly."

John shrugged his coat on and followed his flatmate on wobbly legs, though all he really wanted to do was hide in bed for the remainder of his pregnancy.

"Mr. Watson?"

"It's Dr. Watson," Sherlock corrected, standing as the doctor entered the examination room. "And I don't understand what is taking so long. We've been here for _hours_ and his pain is hardly being managed."

"I'm sorry. Dr. Watson, I'm Dr. Marshall." The red-headed woman reached out a hand to shake John's. He was sitting on the wrong side of the white coats, in his opinion. He hated wearing the breezy hospital gowns, but he had just been taken for an ultrasound and was meant to be waiting patiently for the results. Which, he had to assume, had just walked in the room in a cloud of vanilla perfume (quite unprofessional, perfume on an A&E doctor, he thought) and clicking heels.

"I understand you've been having some abnormally strong cramping," the woman said, reading it off his chart before looking up at him with warm, brown eyes that didn't _look_ like they were about to give him bad news, but he had seen enough people give that look before informing a spouse that their loved one hadn't survived.

He swallowed down the ball of dread that was creeping up his throat. "Yes," he said. "And a bit of spotting."

"He could barely stand this morning with the force of the cramping," Sherlock added from behind the doctor. "That's why I insisted he come here for tests."

The doctor smiled patiently at John before turning to Sherlock. "Are you the father?" she asked, extending her hand to him.

"Sherlock Holmes. Certainly not," he huffed. "I'm just his flatmate."

"Ah, I see," she said, dropping her hand when it went ignored. She turned back to John, her heels clicking slightly against the floor as she did so, echoing off the walls as John waited for the verdict. "Well, Dr. Watson, the good news is that everything looks normal."

John let out a breath he'd been holding captive. "Really?"

"You're about five and a half weeks along, so your body is adjusting. If you're stressed about the pregnancy or if you're not getting enough rest-" Sherlock huffed again from across the room, clearly reading an insinuation from the doctor that John hadn't interpreted. "-It's not uncommon for your body to react to that stress. But everything is going quite smoothly, and if I were you, I'd go ahead and schedule a twelve-week check up just to make sure that things keep on that track. Aside from a bit of an iron deficiency-which is fixable with pre-natal vitamins-you're perfectly fine."

Perfectly fine. John practically floated on those words all the way back to Baker Street.

The cloud seemed to settle around him in a thick haze when the taxi pulled up behind a sleek, black town car just outside the flat.

_Oh, God, not now_, John thought as he opened the taxi door. _I can't do this right now. I can't see him._

When he turned around to pay the fare, John saw that Sherlock had made no move to get out of the taxi. In fact, he was looking at his phone and reaching to close the door at the same time.

"Lestrade. A case," he said before prattling off another address to the cabbie. They were gone before John had time to register the fact that he had just been left alone at 221B without any excuse not to confront the situation.

John looked up at the windows, expecting to see Mycroft looking down at him from the sitting room, but there was no sign of life from inside the flat.

He took a deep breath and entered.

There was no sound from upstairs as he carefully took the steps one at a time, ignoring the churning in his stomach that was now an even further imposition on his cramps.

"John." Mycroft was in the doorway at the top of the stairs, looking down with such a relieved expression that John wondered what terrible scenario he'd dreamed up after seeing Sherlock tucking him into the cab earlier. "John, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, yes," John said when he reached the top. "Could use a cup of tea, though."

"Yes, yes," Mycroft said, stepping aside and letting John into the flat. "Of course, let me." He quickly moved to help John out of his coat, but the shorter man shrugged him away.

"Really, Mycroft, I'm fine. Just give me a moment to get settled."

Mycroft swallowed and stepped away, visibly unsure of how to proceed.

John hadn't meant to snap at him, not really, but he didn't say anything until he had put the kettle on and returned to the sitting room, where Mycroft was still standing in the same spot John had left him in.

"You can sit, you know," John said, gentler now. "I'm not going to make you leave when you've only just arrived."

"Actually, I've been here a while," he replied. He took a seat in one of the armchairs anyway. "I thought you'd be back sooner. You..." The older man cleared his throat and fiddled with one of the buttons on his suit jacket. "I was informed that you were being taken to the hospital. I thought... I thought that perhaps they were mistaken about who the patient in the scenario was-that maybe Sherlock had botched an experiment. When I got here, I called Sherlock-he said it was you." Mycroft met John's eyes for the first time in several minutes. "I'm... a bit at a loss, John. I've never been in a situation where I didn't know exactly where I stood with someone. I had hoped... that my calling by this afternoon wouldn't be seen as too forward. But I wanted to see with my own eyes that you were all right."

"I am," John said quietly. The kettle sang a moment later and John nearly tripped over the end table in his haste to leave the room. He poured the tea as slowly as the water would go, and then spent the full four minutes standing at the counter, watching the tea steep.

"John." Mycroft cleared his throat. "I apologize. I didn't mean to impose," he began.

"No, Mycroft, you're not-"

"No, John, I shouldn't have shown up without notice-"

"You don't have to leave, Mycroft," John said, noticing that the other man had put on his coat and donned his umbrella.

"I do, John. I... I don't wish to renege on our agreement-"

"It's a bit late for that," John muttered under his breath before he could stop himself. He clapped a hand over his mouth and shook his head as Mycroft's face twisted in a mixture of hurt and humiliation. The other man turned toward the stairs. "No, Mycroft, wait-" John rushed after him and took the steps two at a time until he was able to catch the back of Mycroft's collar. "Please, we need to talk."

John grimaced at his word choice, given the current situation, and when Mycroft turned around, the elder Holmes's face was a mask that may as well have been painted on in the last thirty seconds.

"Come upstairs," John requested. He let his fingers skirt along the edge of Mycroft's collar and hoped that the gentle touch would bring back some sense of security to his lover. If he could just trigger the memories of every time his mouth had traced the very line his fingers now followed, he knew that the Holmesian mask would disappear. "Please, Mycroft."

The mask was still set on Mycroft's features when the other man nodded tersely and began up the stairs.

John fetched the tea mugs-just milk in his own and extra sugar for Mycroft-before settling himself in his armchair. His partner had removed his coat and was sitting stiffly across from John, his cup almost immediately ignored after a polite sip and short, appreciative nod that John had not forgotten his preferences.

"I went to the hospital this morning at Sherlock's insistence," John began. He spoke slowly, not sure of what his next word would be until he'd already said it. "I'm sure I was just as surprised as you are now."

Mycroft's face hadn't changed, but still he responded, "It must have been serious to warrant my dear brother to be forceful about a trip to A&E. I'll admit that that was why I was skeptical to believe it was you who was in need of treatment."

"It turned out to be nothing," John said, twisting his mug in his hands. "Just your basic stomach cramps, but Sherlock was a bit of a mother hen about it."

The elder man's brow furrowed. "You wouldn't have gone if the cramping hadn't concerned you."

"I didn't say I wasn't concerned, just that... well, I didn't think they were anything to be too worried about." John was getting closer to the reveal and was feeling more and more flustered by the moment. Mycroft's gaze was studious, but there was a part of the other man that seemed to be asking him to get to the point.

"You have been very pale as of late, John," Mycroft noted and John's stomach did a little flip at the fact that his lover had truly been keeping track of him. "I'd been a bit concerned myself. Thought you may have been getting the flu."

"I... Ah, well, I've got a bit of a stomach bug, but..." He paused. "I doubt it'll go away anytime soon," he added with the utmost care. It wasn't a lie by any means, but the way Mycroft shifted forward in his chair had crumbled the mask he had been wearing, showing the lines of vulnerability and worry on every inch of his face.

"Are you sick?" Mycroft asked quickly, eyes darting all over John as if looking for lumps and tumors or patches of missing skin and lost limbs. "I can find you whatever sort of specialist-"

"Mycroft, no, no, nothing like that," John said, scooting forward in his chair and reaching out for his lover's hands. The long, cool fingers caressed his own as he clasped them and pulled Mycroft just a bit more forward in the chair so their knees touched. After so many weeks of denying himself even the faintest amount of contact with the man, the feel of his hands and the gentle warmth radiating from his legs to John's was almost exhilarating.

_Take it all in,_ he told himself. _He may never want to speak to you again after you tell him..._

John took a deep breath and leaned forward, tilting his head up as Mycroft leaned in and then their lips touched in the most chaste of parted-lip kisses, very similar to the goodbye-for-now kiss they'd shared just over six weeks ago. How successful their break had been that they're now here and wanting each other just as much as before.

They were now unlocking their goodbye the same way they'd sealed it.

"Mycroft," John whispered, drawing back. He bit his lip and tried to find the words. Two words, one contraction, ten letters, one apostrophe, one space, but he couldn't get his mouth to form them. Over the next minutes, his lover tried to speak on three separate occasions, but the smaller man silenced him each time with a kiss or a "shhhh" or just by shaking his head at him.

John pressed his forehead to Mycroft's and decided that the best way to break the news to him would be to say it quickly. Unfortunately for John, his quickly spewed "Mycroft, I'm pregnant" sounded more like "Mcrftmpigant" which simply made the other man sit back and stare at him, clearly checking for symptoms of a stroke.

"I'm pregnant," John said on an exhale. He held what breath he had left and watched as the words wrote themselves in the reaction on Mycroft's face. First came a questioning glance, as if his brain had to wrap itself around the concept of pregnancy, like he was wondering exactly how one_got_ pregnant, followed immediately by a sharp intake of breath and a nervous, broken exhale, during which he gripped John's fingers painfully. His face looked slightly startled now, and John felt almost dizzied with nerves and a lack of oxygen as he waited for the emotions to stop playing over Mycroft's face.

After the initial confusion and shock came an air of disbelief that settled over the room, but the good kind, not the "Whose child is it?" kind. That was where Mycroft settled and when he did, he leaned forward again to touch his face against John's.

"How long have you known?" he asked. His breath was warm. One of his fingers was stroking John's hand and the other hand had come up to cup John's cheek, thumb lightly tracing over his bottom lip as though the sandy-haired man was a brand new creature to be explored.

"Three days," John breathed. "I didn't know how to tell you-"

Mycroft nodded, which in turn made John's head bob just slightly. "Well, now I know."

_Where do we go from here?_ John wondered.

"I..." Mycroft leaned away and released his partner's hands as he settled back into the chair. "I'd like you to keep it." His voice was just barely above a whisper and he looked like a contradictory response from John would break him.

"Of course I will," John replied instantly. That had never been a question for him, not even when he had desperately been hoping for a negative test.

"And I... I understand if my lifestyle isn't appealing to you-if you don't want me to be a part of the child's life, but I'd like to provide for you. Doctors, now, education, anything, later-"

John's head was spinning so quickly that he wasn't sure he could keep up with Mycroft's offers. What did that mean? Did it mean that this was on him? That Mycroft didn't _want_ to try the compromise business or that he didn't expect _John_ to be in this for the long haul?

"Wait, wait, I need you to stop right now," John said, waving his hands and probably looking entirely like a madman. "What are you saying?"

Mycroft swallowed and repeated his list-the bit about doctors and care and ensuring that John and the child would be provided for-but John shook his head before the man was even close to finished his spiel.

"That's not what I mean. I mean what are you saying about... us?"

The man in front of him took pause and carefully considered his next words. "I suppose I'm saying that if you aren't amenable to being in a long-term relationship with me-"

"I am," John interjected. "I am very amenable."

"Oh."

John leaned forward in his chair and tried to pull Mycroft out of the shell he had retreated into moments ago. "I love you, Mycroft. I was falling in love with you before, but at the end there, I knew it. But love isn't easy-we both know that, because we're both crazy enough to love Sherlock and he's the hardest person in the world to love-but you and me could make this work, loving each other."

John practically threw himself out of his chair and on his knees in front of Mycroft, spreading the other man's knees and crawling between them so he could be closer to him. Arms unfolded and wrapped around him and when he was close enough that he could look up and breathe the same air as his lover, he continued: "This isn't something we can just try. We're going to have to make sacrifices-both of us-because that's what love is. It means you'll stop running off to Downing Street in the middle of the night in exchange for changing dirty nappies or dealing with boogie men in closets. It means I'll stop getting myself strapped into Semtex vests and chasing around your madman brother until all hours. We can't do it halfway, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded, his breath quick. "John, I-I've always planned everything, so you must understand that this is very... this is very out of sorts for me. Not having control of the situation is no small discomfort, and I'm trying to see every possible outcome-"

"Stop trying to think so far in advance. Just-Mycroft, look at me." John took the other man's face in his hands and burned his own gaze into green eyes. "Do you love me?" he asked. He supposed it was a hard question to start with, considering the words had never been spoken outside of quick breaths just before or after orgasm, which was when one was susceptible to such thoughts.

"Yes," Mycroft whispered.

"Do you want to raise this child with me?"

Mycroft's hands traced John's sides above his jumper, making him shiver at the sense memory of those hands on his skin. "You have no idea how much, John," he answered.

"Are you willing to reassign aspects of your career so you can be a father to this child?" This was the answer John expected to take the most time to consider, but it was barely past his lips when Mycroft's reply came:

"Consider it done."

"And... Well, I just have one other request," John said, caressing Mycroft's freckled cheek with his thumb.

"Anything." The way Mycroft said the word made John truly believe that the man would do anything he asked and it sent a nervous tingle down his spine.

"Promise me we will give this baby a name with less school yard bully appeal than yours and Sherlock's."

"Oh, most definitely," Mycroft replied, smiling now for the first time since John had gotten home from the hospital. John almost hated to interrupt the smile, but he felt like this was the sort of occasion that warranted a kiss to cement the deal.

And this one was an agreement John never planned to unseal.


	2. Four Little Words

Note: _Two Words, Ten Letters_ was originally intended to be a one-shot, but I decided to do a follow-up because some of the scenes herein wouldn't get out of my head. It's got quite a heaping serving of fluff-like, enough so that you may find yourself wondering if you're riding on a unicorn made of cotton candy while simultaneously hugging a litter of puppies. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>"Mycroft." John's voice was practically a painted picture of gentle instruction. Mycroft looked up from his phone to where John stood in the doorway of the en suite bathroom. He was wearing a pair of cotton pyjama bottoms and a dark gray t-shirt that was loose-fitting at the shoulders but pulled taught across his belly.<p>

He looked perfectly fine-there was a spot of toothpaste on the left corner of his mouth, but that was all that appeared amiss. The hint of something wavering in his voice was what made Mycroft's stomach bunch.

"What is it, John?" He sat up and turned the duvet away from his legs.

"I need you to do something for me." John's voice was, again, veiling something Mycroft couldn't place. It was worrisome, to say the least.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed and started to stand, the word "anything" ready to pass his lips when John held up a hand, halting him.

"I need you to be calm," he said, taking a cautious step further into the room. He suddenly looked like a man trying to tread cautiously in a mine field. Mycroft braced himself. "I need you to promise me you'll be calm."

Mycroft's brow furrowed, a small point appearing just above his nose. His brain immediately began to formulate a thousand different scenarios that could warrant John's preemptive demand for composure.

"Remember our plan?" John asked. The man was a font of serenity, clearly hoping to project the feeling onto his partner. He was failing, of course. Mycroft was near panic by the time John sat down on one of the two chaise lounges at the foot of the bed. The uncertainty of the moment was threatening to drive Mycroft through the floor with its weight. John should have been moving toward the bed; the pair of them should have been curled together by now.

"Our plan?" Mycroft echoed, not sure what his lover was referencing.

"It's a bit shot to hell," John said, placing a hand on his swollen belly. And then Mycroft understood the tension in the man's jaw; the way he grasped the left arm of the chair with white knuckles when he sat down. As if on queue, his face contorted for a long moment. Immediately, Mycroft was on his knees in front of him, no care in the world given to his silk pyjama bottoms.

"No, no, it's not time yet," Mycroft said. His fingers fumbled with his phone for a moment before he was able to steady himself. He had to get Anthea. He had to get John to the hospital. "It's too soon."

"We're only a few weeks out," John said on an exhale once the pain had ebbed. "A little undercooked, sure, but should be healthy." He took a deep breath and held it for a moment. Mycroft was quickly overwhelmed with the fear that their child would be born in the very room it was conceived in.

"Stop that," John said, clearly reading him like a book. "We're going to go to the hospital, they're going to prep me for surgery, and you'll be Daddy Mycroft while I'm in a drugged stupor." Another deep breath, another tight grip on the arm rests.

"Anthea is ordering the car," Mycroft said. Every effort was being taken to remain calm, for John's sake, but he would have been lying if he said he wasn't nervous. What man wouldn't be? John, however, was a doctor-surely he knew how these things went. But they didn't have a bag packed for the hospital, and Mycroft was in his pyjamas. He didn't like rushing, but what choice did he have?

And as he sat in the back of the town car several minutes later with John spread out across the seats, head in his lap, he couldn't help wondering how he was lucky enough to be in this very situation.

-o0o-

There were a lot of things to discuss-so many things to plan. It was killing Mycroft not to be able to arrange the rest of their lives with a few phone calls and a snap of his fingers. He was a man used to having his way, and he wasn't prepared for this.

Very few things in his life had been able to surprise him, but this was certainly at the top of that list. Tucked into bed with John Watson for the first time in two months, Mycroft felt a subtle pull just below his heart as he watched the younger man sleep. John was shirtless, and he had pushed the covers down to his waist and raised his left leg above the duvet. This wasn't something Mycroft thought he would be privileged to see again so soon. He couldn't help watching the gentle rise and fall with each of John's quiet breaths.

Their break had been precipitated by Mycroft's inability to delegate tasks among his team. He knew he took on too much, but it hadn't been clear to him just how much he was sacrificing for his work until John had suggested they take some time apart; prioritize. Now, Mycroft knew where his priorities needed to be, just not how to get them there.

Content that he wasn't dreaming and that John wasn't about to disappear into the recesses of his dreams, Mycroft rested his head against his own pillow. His fingers found their way onto John's stomach and rested there, tentatively. It was still a mystery to him that there was a _life_ in there. Something that hadn't existed two months ago was now growing-a little grape-sized person who was half of each of them.

It surprised him; took over his every thought each time John was in his line of vision. Even when he was in his office, the thought was constantly in the back of his mind. Just yesterday he had rescheduled an important phone call with an American ambassador because he had gotten caught up in research about first trimester development. Next week, the baby would begin to grow fingernails. The following week would find their child able to open and close a fist, all while being smaller than his own little finger.

Mycroft had never known anyone who was pregnant. It was something he realized once he had begun all of his internet searches into the subject. The only child he'd ever known at birth was Sherlock, and while he remembered that his mother had swelled to the size of a small boat, he didn't remember finding it curious or fascinating. He supposed it was much different when it was your own child's development you were tracking through the use of internet slide shows and coin-to-fruit comparisons.

His fingers traced a circle in the peach fuzz around John's belly button and rested down again. He swallowed the urge to sigh. Mycroft Holmes was not patient. He wanted to see how John's stomach would stretch and curve; wanted to feel their baby moving under his fingers. He hadn't known how much he desired any of these things until he had to wait for them.

John's left hand slipped sleepily to entwine his fingers with Mycroft's. He hummed contentedly, squeezed softly. "M'croft," he mumbled. His eyes were moving beneath his lids, ready to look around in the darkness, but it seemed his body was trying to hold on to the last moments of sleep.

"Shhh," Mycroft replied. A blush immediately crept up his collar. John always tended to catch him when he watched him sleep, but he couldn't help it, especially not now, not with what he knew. He didn't want to miss a minute of this. "Go back to sleep." He had to get up and head to his office, but he hadn't wanted to set an alarm and risk waking John. His internal alarm tended to work well enough. Well, it worked well enough to wake him an extra forty minutes early so he could just watch John sleeping.

The hand holding his squeezed him close when he tried to pull away. When his eyes found John's in the faintest of early morning light, something in the back of his mind told him that he always wanted to be the first thing John saw when he woke. If he could start his day off with such a dose of unbridled adoration, he'd never have a poor day in the rest of his life.

"When will I see you again?" John asked. His voice was low and gravelly with sleep.

"It'll likely be a few days." Mycroft regretted the time that fell between them, but if he was going to train someone to take on his tasks in as short a time as seven months, he had to kick up his workload in the meantime. Fortunately, John nodded in sleepy understanding. Mycroft made another move to get out of the bed, but John held him firm. "You should get back to sleep," Mycroft said.

"You know we won't be able to feel anything for another two or three months." John squeezed his hand again, almost apologetically, and his eyes told Mycroft that he'd been caught. Of course, John was incorrect. _He_ would likely be able to feel movement on the inside of eight weeks; it was Mycroft who would be left waiting.

"Of course," Mycroft replied. His thumb moved over the skin of John's stomach, still flat as the day they'd first fallen into bed together. "I think it's the knowing that has me affected." It's an admission, though he knows he should be getting out of bed and letting John sleep.

"Mmm, that's common, I think" John said, rolling over onto his right side. He was more awake now; the exact opposite of how Mycroft wanted him to be.

"Oh?"

"Mhmm. I'm sure there are other things that will have you affected, as well, but we can explore those later." John's voice had an almost teasing edge to it, and the way he stroked Mycroft's fingers as he disengaged from their hand-holding was far from innocent. His fingertips nearly tingled in anticipation of that promise, but he reminded himself that he had a job to get to; a number of political crises to solve before he could even have breakfast.

When he'd finally managed to pull himself out of the comfortable warmth of the bed, it didn't take him long at all to prepare for the day. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he'd be able to do this a year from now, or if his early mornings would be owned by a shrieking infant in need of milk and a cuddle. Somehow, the latter is preferable in a way he never thought it would be.

He quietly padded around to John's side of the bed and pressed a kiss to his forehead. The affectionate gesture is bordering on a side of domesticity that they'd never explored, but it felt called for, given Mycroft's current head space.

"Thank you." The words were whispered on an exhale and he started to move toward the door, but John caught him by the wrist. Reflexes; light sleeper. Military. Mycroft would've expected it if he hadn't been feeling so sentimental.

"For what?"

Mycroft turned back to the bed and let his fingertips brush over John's stomach again, a silent confirmation of what John already had to know, even in the grogginess of morning.

"I didn't exactly do this by myself," John replied. The words weren't accusatory; they actually came with a small smile as John pushed himself up on his elbows. "You're well and truly stuck with me."

Mycroft smiled and made the split-second decision whether to leave their morning at that or to say what he was thinking. Maybe his preference for the latter came from the lack of morning tea in his system or the direct link to the sentimentality he felt, but he spoke nonetheless.

"For all our differences, my brother and I are really quite the same. Solitary, a bit socially intolerable, useless in matters of heart." He paused and sat on the edge of the bed, indenting it just next to John's thigh. "Yes, I'm a bit more house-trained than he, but at the core, we're similar. And I never thought anyone would want to share this with me." For the third time that morning, his fingers splayed over the skin of John's abdomen. "Or, for that matter, that this was something I'd want. So I find myself wishing to thank you."

"I think that goes both ways," John replied. Their fingers linked together once more, and they stayed that way until Anthea called him to the car.

-o0o-

The few days Mycroft predicted would lapse between their meetings turned into three and a half weeks. It was embarrassing and borderline unacceptable to the eldest Holmes brother, and he found himself accepting his younger brother's admonishments. When Sherlock Holmes thinks you need to look at your priorities, odds are you've been sorely neglectful.

That isn't to say that he didn't keep in touch with John. Quite the opposite, actually. He frequently called-though mostly to postpone dinner to another evening, or to inform John of the latest information he'd learned about their child's organ development. John, forever the patron saint of patience and understanding, humored him while he prattled off facts about weeks ten, eleven, twelve, and thirteen. The other man sighed when Mycroft announced that he would have to travel to Australia, and John's voice had been a bit tense when the call from Australia had announced another impromptu trip to New Zealand.

Mycroft knew that he wasn't making much of a show of passing on his responsibilities, but it was early yet and he couldn't exactly send Anthea on her own.

He had been looking forward to returning home to Chelsea and finally talking things through with John-arrangements that needed making, doctors appointments, living situations, the like. What he didn't expect (though he thought perhaps he deserved it) was to call John only to have the other man say he was out with Sherlock on a case and likely wouldn't be done until late and maybe Mycroft was better off going to bed after such a trying business trip.

Though tempted to fall into the downy plushness of his bed, Mycroft remained awake, sitting and watching the fire in his parlor, sipping at a brandy until he raised the glass to his lips and found it empty. At that point, he called the security team he had tagging Sherlock and John to find out if they'd yet retired. It was nearly three in the morning.

"They've just apprehended a suspect, Sir. I expect they'll return to Baker Street shortly."

Mycroft relaxed a bit, though he was frustrated at the very idea that John had been running around out in the cold at such hours. There was no way he could stop him, but weren't they both meant to be cutting back on their vices? Mycroft on his work and John on... Sherlock.

His phone rang just as he was readying himself for bed. John's name lit up the screen and Mycroft sighed. He didn't fancy arguing just before bed. It would only mean that the pair of them would wake up angry in the morning.

Before he could even utter a greeting, John said, "Open the bloody front door. It's freezing."

Puzzled, Mycroft made his way downstairs and found John standing on the front step, a taxi driving away behind him. The first thought in his mind was that he needed to get John a key. The second was:

"You should be sleeping," Mycroft said, stepping aside for John to enter.

"So should you."

John walked straight by and to the stairs. Mycroft followed without question until they reached the bedroom, at which point John turned and faced him.

"I'll have you know I'm furious, just to get this out of the way." John's fingers worked at the buttons on his coat before shrugging it onto the chest at the foot of the bed. "We're meant to be working on this, Mycroft."

After their absences from each other, Mycroft's eyes immediately went to John's belly, looking for any sign of change. After all, it had been nearly a month. But nothing.

"I'm exhausted." John's statement didn't mean much when he was standing in the center of the room, looking as though he had no intentions of falling asleep anytime soon. "But my parents didn't want me to make their mistakes. Fuck, _Harry_ doesn't want me to make _her_ mistakes, and damn it, Mycroft we are not going to bed with this hanging in the air."

Mycroft remained silent, though it wasn't for a lack of things to say. He just wanted to let John have his piece.

"If we go to bed cross, we're going to wake up cross on different sides of London, and we're going to go another week without seeing each other because we're both too bloody proud." John took a deep breath. "You told me you were going to cut back on the work. A month and a half ago, you sat at Baker Street and you swore I wouldn't be alone in this. But where were you when it was time for the first scan? Do you know how many ways that could've gone wrong? What if there hadn't been a heartbeat?" His voice broke and Mycroft wanted to reach for him, but he didn't think his arms would be welcome. It only took a moment for John to regain himself before he continued. "And then you just come back and want me to drop everything and come see you, because you're Mycroft Holmes, the bloody British government and who _cares_ if your security team nearly botched Sherlock's investigation?"

That was likely a rhetorical question.

"I... admit that I haven't done everything in my power to ensure that I would be able to step away from my position more frequently," Mycroft said, trying to remain delicate. He knew from research that John's hormones were spiked and that he didn't have much control over his temper and mood swings. However, he also knew from experience that John Watson tended to let things simmer until they boiled over, and that he couldn't just downplay the emotions to the pregnancy. "These last few weeks were a whirlwind of unexpected complications," he explained. "I can't go into further detail than that, but do understand that it will not happen again."

Mycroft's hands found John's waist after a half dozen tentative steps forward. "I meant what I said those weeks ago, and I still do. But I will admit that neither of us are completely holding up our ends of the bargain, if the bags under your eyes are anything to go by." He wasn't accusing John of not taking care of himself, not in so many words, but the concern he felt when he saw the exhaustion plain in that expressive face wasn't something he could tuck away.

"Tonight was a one-off," John said nonchalantly. His words were punctuated with a yawn. Mycroft drew him closer.

"From here on out, then." Mycroft rested his chin on top of John's head. He knew the other man hated it, but when John buried his face against the side of his neck, they both let the tension from their row dissipate.

"Coat pocket," John whispered against his throat.

Mycroft, content to fall asleep standing there, was briefly confused by John's words and made a sound that suggested so.

"A bit of motivation for change. In my left coat pocket." John lowered his eyes and stepped away, eyeing the coat on the trunk as he did. He walked around to his side of the bed and started unbuttoning his shirt. Even though Mycroft knew it would be impractical for John to return to Baker Street tonight, he was still happy that the man chose to stay.

Mycroft reached for the jacket and turned it over in his hands. When he reached into the pocket, he found a thin square of paper and withdrew it. The side that faced him was plain white, and he looked up at John, who motioned for him to flip it over.

When he turned it over in his hands, his breath caught. There, in black and white and shades of grey, was their baby. Foreign, alien to him but somehow familiar. He stared for a long moment at the bulbous head, the disproportional body, the tiny little point on the head that could only be a nose.

He was frighteningly overwhelmed by the feeling that he would do anything in his power for this incredible little person.

After gently placing the printed photo down on his bureau, he curled up against John's side in the bed. "I love you." He pressed his lips against John's shoulder. Their fingers wrapped around each other on John's stomach once more and Mycroft pressed closer to him.

-o0o-

"Of course, of course, right this way. We've prepared a room for you, Mr. Holmes." The nurse leading them was walking briskly and Anthea was pushing John's wheelchair as Mycroft followed quickly at his side.

"It's Dr. Watson-" Mycroft started to correct, but John grabbed his hand and squeezed. Hard.

"She can call me whatever she bloody wants to, so long as there is a room here with some variation of my name on it."

They helped John onto the bed and the nurse informed them that a doctor would be in to see them shortly.

"Mycroft," John wheezed.

"Yes?" Mycroft hurried over to the side of the bed.

"If you don't stop pacing, I will end you. I told you to be calm. This?" John gestured to where Mycroft had been walking back and forth. "This is not calm."

Mycroft sat on the side of the bed. "My apologies." He took John's hand, but John shook him away.

"I don't want to break your fingers." There was that calm, a certain air of nonchalance that made Mycroft wonder what John Watson was made of.

"Can they give you something for the pain?"

"They might offer," John said, leaning back against the pillows. "But I'm hoping they'll take me right up to surgery so we won't have to worry through this. Then again, if we get a doctor who doesn't believe in surgical births without physical merit, I may or may not kill someone."

They had found out from John's mother, about halfway through the pregnancy, that their family had a history of cervical complications. As such, most of the children born on his mother's side had been results of cesareans. It had seemed only logical to schedule one rather than wait through hours of labor to find out if John's cervix was properly functional or not.

Mycroft felt more helpless than he could ever remember feeling. He didn't like seeing John in pain; he liked knowing that there was nothing he could do about it even less. Even so, he could hardly believe that in barely a few hours, he could be watching his son or daughter take their first breath.

Just one more surprise.

-o0o-

"If the sex is apparent, would you like to know?"

They hadn't talked about this. It seemed they had discussed almost everything else about their child, but knowing what to expect in terms of the child's gender hadn't been at the forefront of their minds.

Mycroft looked at John, who was lying on the examination table, paper shirt rucked up to just above his ribs. Even at 20 weeks, the change in his body was minimal. Mycroft's impatience, however, certainly showed. Regularly.

They shared a look and then answered each other with opposite preferences. Mycroft, no surprise, wanted to know the sex of the child. John wanted to wait.

"Well, go on and try to deduce it, but know that if you figure it out and tell me, I'll be cross with you," John said, effectively ending the conversation. Mycroft wanted to shoot back that John was a _doctor_ and should be able to figure it out on his own, but he assumed that if John didn't want to know, he'd likely avoid looking.

Mycroft decided that if John wanted to wait, he would wait. Even though it would likely drive him crazy.

But when the baby came up on the little screen, Mycroft was thoroughly distracted and didn't even have thought to look for the baby's sex organs. Instead, he saw little hands and feet. A little head that looked a bit more natural than it had two months ago. And it was moving.

"How does that even fit in there?" John asked aloud, though it sounded more like a rhetorical question than one that expected an answer. His tone was incredulous. "I mean honestly, I can't feel a thing and I haven't gained even a hint of a bump."

"Well, development looks normal. Heartbeat is strong. It's not unusual for the baby to be a bit small, given your age, and since this is your first child, we don't know how late you'll start to show. With how it's growing right now, I'd say you won't have a very noticeable bump until between twenty-six and thirty weeks."

"Is it just that it's sitting low?" John asked.

"Could be a little shy, yeah," the technician said.

_A little shy._ The words followed Mycroft all the way home. Even though the words were joking, he hadn't given the child much by way of personality yet. He hadn't felt the baby move-and John promised he hadn't felt much, either-and he couldn't determine if the child was going to have his or John's demeanor when there wasn't any action to build from.

"We'll have to decide what to call ourselves," John mused over lunch. They'd gotten takeaway because John hadn't been hungry before their appointment but had suddenly felt famished afterwards. There had also been an intense craving for butter chicken involved in the takeaway decision.

"What do you mean?" Mycroft asked. He tucked his napkin under his chin to avoid getting any curry on himself before he returned to the office. When he removed the lid from his container, John's eyes looked at the chicken longingly. The one thing they did know for sure about their child was that it would not tolerate John eating any kind of spices.

He licked his lips and opened his own container before continuing. "I mean we both can't be called 'daddy,' now can we?"

"I think I'd prefer to be called 'father,' given the gamut of parental terms."

"Absolutely not," John said through a mouthful. "Not going to happen."

"Whyever not?"

"This child will be the poshest, smartest thing to walk the halls of whichever prep school we decide to fling them at, but I draw the line at him or her calling you _father_. This kid isn't going to be a third as formal as you." John paused and gestured around them with his fork. "Had this dining room ever seen styrofoam containers before I invaded it? I'm still worried that knight fellow is going to spear me for not wearing a napkin." John smiled good-naturedly, but Mycroft couldn't help bristling slightly at the accusation.

He leaned back in his chair and regarded his partner. "Well, I certainly can't imagine anyone calling me _'daddy.'_"

John looked at him for a moment before slowly setting down his fork. His face transformed into a bright ball of laughter and he leaned forward over the table, trying to calm himself. He covered his mouth to keep from spitting out his half-chewed chicken.

"What's funny?" Mycroft felt like he had missed something important.

John straightened himself a moment later and swallowed, shaking his head. "I'm just imagining a mud-covered six-year-old running up to you in your three-piece suit calling out 'Daddy! Daddy!'" He chuckled again and picked up his fork.

"Ah, so you're assuming we'll have a boy, then," Mycroft mused.

"Don't be presumptuous." John chewed and swallowed, but there was a small bit of sauce tempting Mycroft at the corner of his lips. John licked his lips when he saw the way Mycroft's eyes had been distracted. "Little girls like mud, too."

Mycroft tugged his napkin from his collar. "No child of mine will want to be within a hundred yards of a mud puddle."

"Then this will be interesting, because no child of mine will be able to resist."

In the weeks that followed, John had taken to spending more time at Mycroft's, but he seemed reluctant to relocate on a more permanent basis. Mycroft took no offense to it-the fact remained that he was unable to completely diminish his workload, and John was more likely to get an uninterrupted night's sleep at Baker Street.

It was around the time that Mycroft realized this sad fact that he began to unload more of his workload and reassign government projects to other divisions. He was concerned about his brother living alone again, but it wasn't as if he would be able to keep John away from Sherlock. They were practically two sides to a coin, and he didn't fancy that he would ever be able to get between them.

He harbored no ill will toward his brother for the bond between the pair of them. As surely as he had never expected to find someone to share his life with, he'd never expected anyone to love Sherlock so unconditionally. John Watson was a breath of fresh air for the both of them.

"Have you told anyone at work why you're suddenly dumping more work on them rather than taking care of everything yourself? Or do they just think you've finally snapped and are abusing your power?" John smiled at him as he stirred at a pot of pasta. It had been nearly two weeks since they'd last seen each other and John had insisted on cooking dinner rather than going out to a restaurant.

"Only Anthea knows for the time being," Mycroft answered as he dug through a cupboard for the spaghetti strainer. "I don't see that it's the business of anyone else."

"Are you planning to tell anyone?" John drew a single strand of spaghetti from the pot and pressed it between two fingers to check the texture before dropping it back into the pot with a small shake of his head.

"You and my dear brother are the extent of my personal circle and seeing as each of you knew before me, I don't think there is anyone I need to inform of the occasion."

John pulled a face and stirred at the pasta, but said nothing.

Later, when Mycroft turned down the duvet and waited for John to finish brushing his teeth, he idly wondered which spare room they should convert into a nursery. Neither of them were very well suited for a small child, though he supposed in the beginning everything didn't need to be child-proofed, since the little he or she wouldn't be doing all that much toddling about. Still, with the rest of the flat furnished to the nines, he had a hard time picturing colorful cartoon characters on the walls or stuffed animals protruding from a toy box.

Or, for that matter, any hint of a child anywhere in the flat. But there was time. They'd work it out.

Somehow.

John poked his head into the room from the threshold of the bathroom. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft set his phone on the bedside table after checking his alarm. He'd set it for half six, which was the latest he'd let himself sleep on a weekday in years. His eyes lingered on the scar on John's left shoulder as the man leaned sideways into the threshold.

"Yes?"

"I've got something to show you, but you need to close your eyes."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but sat on the edge of the bed and did as he was instructed.

"Mycroft Holmes, if you even think about opening your eyes before I tell you to, you will regret it."

The thought had crossed his mind, obviously, but he wasn't going to cheat. He was rewarded a moment later by the sound of John padding barefoot across the carpet until he stopped directly in front of Mycroft. He was about to open his eyes when John's hand covered them.

"Not yet," he said. "Can I trust you or should I keep my hand here?"

"I assure you I have enough self control to keep my eyes shut," Mycroft replied with an amused huff.

John's hand drew away with a featherlight caress. He stepped away and, for a moment, Mycroft was confused, but then there was a soft clicking sound and the red hue in front of his eyes faded to dark. John returned and took his hands. The confusion was fresh until his hands were placed low on the fronts of John's hips before slowly being guided upwards. For the first time, he could feel the telltale curve of the little life beneath his palms.

The skin was warm under his fingers and even though this recent development was by no means how one would picture 27 weeks of pregnancy to look, it was certainly a development. And Mycroft wanted to look.

"John," he said quietly, somehow managing to keep his eyes shut as anticipation thrummed through his veins. "I want to see, John."

"Shh," John replied, moving their hands up further still. "Just a moment." He shifted on his feet and brought Mycroft's hands to rest just below his belly button, pressing them there gently. Mycroft was about to speak again when he felt it; the faintest of flutters under the heel of his left hand.

His eyes snapped open and he looked up to see John smiling in the dim light. His own lips curved into a wonderstruck smile. There was another flurry of movement under his palm that made him feel almost giddy.

"When did this start?" He was nearly breathless, as if he'd just run a marathon.

"I think I just woke up bloated one morning and stayed that way, about a week ago," John explained. His fingers trailed down to where this new pouch-like belly protruded from his hips. The drawstring on his pyjama bottoms was loosely tied. "As for the moving bit, he or she started acting up around this hour a few days ago. Sherlock was abusing his violin, and I think that may have had something to do with it."

Mycroft didn't ask how long John had been able to feel the baby moving. He knew it was unlikely that that had been the first time John felt it; it must've just been the first time it was hard enough to be felt externally.

"Once Sherlock noticed, it was hard to keep his hands off me," John explained, though when Mycroft shot him a worried look, he shook his head. "He's interested in a purely scientific way. Wants to know how the baby reacts to different outside stimuli. I told him in no uncertain terms that this child is not one of his experiments, in the womb or out."

"I make no guarantee that I'll be able to keep my hands off you," Mycroft said, pulling John closer. "Nor do I guarantee that I'll make any effort to try." He pressed a few open-mouthed kisses to John's collarbone, all while keeping one hand on the other man's hip and one just to the side of his rounded belly.

"You're welcome to be as handsy as you please," John said, tilting his head back in invitation. "I suppose it's meant to be part of the package."

"Oh?" Mycroft's lips pulled gently at the pulse point at the base of John's throat.

"Mmm, of course," John hummed. "I swell up like a balloon, get sore at the ankles and striped like a zebra, and all the hormones I kick out will tell you it's the hottest thing you've ever seen."

The older man chuckled and spread his knees so he could pull John closer. "You're a spectacle to behold, John Watson."

"Always glad to entertain." John's fingers were absentmindedly working at the buttons on Mycroft's nightshirt. When he opened the shirt and slipped the forest green silk down his partner's shoulders, he gently pushed on those very shoulders until Mycroft scooted back on the bed, propped on his elbows.

When John straddled his hips and leaned forward for a kiss, Mycroft wrapped his arms around him and held him close, wondering why it had been so long since they'd last done this. Maybe it was something built into Mycroft's psyche that told him he didn't want to risk hurting the baby-no matter how many times John told him that continued intercourse during pregnancy wasn't going to cause any complications.

But right now, he felt young. He felt alive; almost indestructible. One hand rested on the small of John's back, pulling his lover closer yet as his tongue traced his bottom lip. His right hand slipped along the curve of John's stomach possessively before tugging at the tie of his pyjamas.

After, when they settled into the covers, quiet and sated, Mycroft's hand once more found the downward curve below John's belly button and rested there, ready to drift into sleep.

"I think the baby has the hiccups," John said suddenly.

Mycroft blinked his eyes open and asked John to repeat what he'd just said, just to make sure his sleep-addled brain hadn't misheard him.

"I'm serious. I think the baby has hiccups. I keep feeling this little... jump. Just here." He took Mycroft's hand and placed it to the right of where it had been a moment prior. Sure enough, after several skeptical seconds, Mycroft felt a little jolt. Six seconds later, another. And then another.

"This may be the most bizarre thing I've ever encountered," Mycroft mused, caught somewhere between mildly horrified and slightly entertained. "Post-coital hiccups."

"Oh, God." John shielded his eyes with one arm and laughed. "That's a story that is never leaving this room."

-o0o-

"You look ridiculous, by the way," John said with an exhausted smile. "Seafoam is not your color. Especially not when I know you're wearing a waistcoat and fancy trousers under there."

Now that the moment of truth was impending, Mycroft was beginning to feel strangely nauseated. They'd given him a cap and mask and a sterile gown and rubber gloves. He understood the necessity, but it just made him feel like the first real contact he had with his child would likely give the newborn the plague. Because he wasn't already nervous _enough_ about all of this.

"I removed the waistcoat." He smiled, even though John could only see the crinkle at the edges of his eyes.

"I don't want you to be concerned, but I think I may be in love with the nurse who gave me the epidural," John said. His face looked more peaceful than it had prior to the gargantuan needle, which told Mycroft that the anesthetic was working its magic. It made him feel better, as well, to know that John wasn't experiencing quite as much discomfort. John, however, hadn't seen the needle. Mycroft had, and it left him thankful that he wasn't on the receiving end.

"Is it socially acceptable to tell me you love someone else while you're giving birth to my child?"

"As good a time as any," John replied. Mycroft took his hand and held it as the doctors and nurses around them began to move about like a well-oiled machine. The squeeze he gave was as much to reassure John as it was for himself.

_Oh God,_ he thought. _I'm about to become a parent._

-o0o-

"God, we're actually doing this. We're going to be parents. Who in their right mind will let us out of the hospital with a _child_?" John asked, tugging his t-shirt down. After the initial bump three weeks ago, he seemed to be growing rapidly. So much so that Mycroft had accused him of sprouting a twin somewhere in the middle of the second trimester.

"If you have somehow defied the laws of reproduction and gotten a second one in there, I will draw and quarter you," John had threatened. He had followed it up with a playful slap of a pale yellow paintbrush to Mycroft's cheek. Needless to say, they hadn't finished painting that afternoon.

Now that they were only nine weeks from the arrival of the Unnamed Miniature of Mycroft and John, things were starting to solidify as actualities rather than concepts. They couldn't hide the fact that John was pregnant anymore, and Mycroft was fully aware that everyone at the Yard had first assumed that the child was Sherlock's. Sherlock, for his part, had been horrified at the very insinuation of it and had informed everyone that while he took an active interest in the baby's life (at which point John had reminded him, again, that the baby was _not_ a test subject), he'd had no part in its conception.

It seemed every time they turned around, someone was giving them a gift, or unsolicited advice. They had three different books of baby names, a rocking chair that went against every bit of decor in the flat, and a three-tier "cake" made out of diapers. Mrs. Hudson had knitted a blanket. Molly had bought them the smallest jumper Mycroft had ever seen, and he had been amazed by it until he saw the tiny pair of socks that she'd bought to match.

"I'm going to have a team put the furniture together," Mycroft announced. "Painting has been a lovely experience, but I draw the line at trying to read Swedish."

"They're not that complicated, Mycroft. Plus, there are pictures."

"Just let me bring some people in. The nursery will be finished in an afternoon and we won't bicker over placements because everything will be done for us."

"Yes, to your specifications."

Still, John didn't say a word against it when they arrived back at the flat two days later to find a fully-furnished nursery in the room next to their bedroom. He didn't say anything in favor of it, either, but Mycroft suspected that was because he didn't like to admit that sometimes it was truly easier to give the work to a team of professionals.

They were packing up some of John's things at Baker Street when Sherlock decided to inquire about his niece or nephew's name.

"You're not going to name it after one our parents, are you?" Sherlock was perched on his chair with his elbows on his knees. "That would be horribly unoriginal."

"We haven't decided on a name yet, no," John said. He seemed surprised how many of his own possessions had become mingled with Sherlock's to the point that he wasn't sure what was whose anymore. Mycroft watched him trying to sort things out; watched him check the inside flaps of books he wasn't sure about. "Any suggestions?"

Sherlock shook his head, looking utterly bored with the topic already.

Fact was, Mycroft and John had discussed names several times, but each time, they'd been unable to find something that would_fit_. Their own names were on completely opposite sides of the normalcy spectrum. A name didn't get much more plain than John Watson, and Mycroft Holmes had a ring to it that alluded to a certain amount of power and respect.

They didn't want something on one end of the spectrum, they needed their child to be somewhere in the middle. Memorable, but not in the way that would incite schoolyard bullying or strike instant fear in the hearts of playdates.

There was also the debate about whose surname the baby would take, though that was like fighting an uphill battle, since each man wanted the child's last name to be the other's.

It had become such a sore subject between the two of them that Mycroft considered trying to bend the rules about taking a child out of the hospital without a name for the birth certificate. He knew he could get around it if the situation truly warranted something so drastic, but it was possible that if they took that route, the baby would never get a name.

-o0o-

There was a physical shift in the energy of the room just before the baby was delivered. One of the nurses announced "Here it comes!" and John groggily said "Well, that's uncomfortable" and Mycroft was torn between watching the doctors on the other side of the erected sheet and watching John's face.

It was when one of the doctors said "_And here she is!_" that everything in the world seemed to right itself; four little words coming in clearer than ever. And when the shrill crying began a moment later, Mycroft let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. While he knew, deep down, that he would come to wish the crying would stop in the coming weeks, months, years-for the moment, it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. A voice that was new to the world; breath that wouldn't be drawn if it weren't for him and John.

The room was a bit chaotic for Mycroft's brain to follow, but he was keenly aware of the position of the baby in relation to himself. Four feet away, her lungs were being cleared and she was being wrapped in a warm blanket. He held John's hand tightly and tried to catch a glimpse of the newborn through the nurses who were tidying her.

_Her_. God, it was foreign to him, but familiar. He'd barely had time to get used to knowing she was in there and suddenly she was out in the world and he was expected to be _responsible_ for this little person.

One of the nurses turned around and started walking toward him. The tiny bundle in her arms had stopped crying, though Mycroft feared that when he took it, the baby would start wailing all over again. All the same, when the baby was offered to him, he accepted her without a second thought, carefully cradling her head in the bend of his arm.

People had tried to give him their children in the past; tried to get him to hold infants and toddlers because he had so much as glanced at them. Babies, he knew, would never really be his area. But that scrunched up little face was half his own making. It was the kind of moment where he thought "I never want to give this up" and was instantly gratified with the knowledge that he'd never have to.

He turned toward John and leaned in close, bringing the baby's face into his line of sight, since he was still very much unable to go anywhere as the doctors fixed him up from the surgery.

"Hello there," John said quietly. He looked truly exhausted, but he still managed to raise a hand and set it on the pink-blanketed bundle. He smiled favorably. "I bet you're going to be ginger."

Mycroft chuckled and leaned forward to press his forehead to John's, the baby held between them. He felt overwhelmed by too many emotions; too many things that needed sorting.

"Does she have a name?" one of the nurses asked.

"Aurora Holmes," John replied. His voice was low with emotion, though there was certainly a tired edge to it. It was, after all, nearly four in the morning.

His eyes were shining slightly when he met Mycroft's before looking back at the baby. They both stared at her for a long moment, just watching her breathe, but it wasn't because they were wondering if they'd made the right choices about everything that led up to this moment; it was because they knew they'd done something right.

Mycroft thought that if they could just keep doing that-getting _something_ right and surviving the bumps and curves along the way-they'd be okay.

Aurora Holmes to be the poshest, most brilliant little girl to ever jump in mud puddles.


	3. The Little Person's Nickname

I really thought I was done in this verse. Then I heard Sherlock say some of these lines in my head and this was born. Significantly shorter than the other two, but really, I think if this was any longer, my teeth would've gone rotten just writing it.

* * *

><p>"I can recognize a shoe fetish in the way a man toes off his trainers," Sherlock grumbled, rubbing at his temples with his forefingers. "I am a bloody <em>genius.<em>" He glared down at the little orange-haired child who was staring up at him with tearless eyes. "I can figure out what will make you stop _crying_."

The wailing had begun almost as soon as Mrs. Hudson was out the door. Sherlock had sent the woman to tend to her ailing sister. Everyone always said he lacked compassion, but he'd known she needed to go. He'd let her go. He admitted now that perhaps he should have made her wait to leave until Mycroft and John returned, but if she was going to catch a train at a decent hour, she had to leave right away.

"Don't you dare take that child upstairs, Sherlock Holmes," she'd said before closing the door and hurrying off in a cab.

And now he was stuck with a one-year-old in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. The baby had looked almost distressed when her familiar caretaker had left the room, but upon hearing the door close outside, she'd broken down in hysterics. It wasn't as if she had anything to be afraid of. Sherlock was sure he didn't look _that_ terrifying. Sure, he'd missed a lot of sleep and his hair was likely akin to a rat's nest, but that didn't make him the Bogeyman.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. She stopped crying long enough to stare at him blankly and take a deep breath. Then she started again. "I don't even know what you eat." What do you feed something that only has four teeth?

He supposed he could go upstairs and get his laptop to search the internet, but Mrs. Hudson had been adamant that he not dare take the baby upstairs. Chemicals, fumes, sharp objects, she'd said. "Not a proper place to have a full-grown man, let alone a child," she'd said. And he knew enough about child-rearing to know that it probably wasn't a good idea to leave her alone while he researched proper nourishment.

Sherlock turned away from Aurora's high chair and opened one of the cabinets. Oatmeal seemed a possible candidate, but Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to have to worry about how hot it needed to be for her to not scald her tongue. The refrigerator offered no viable solutions, unless- "How about this?" he asked, turning around and holding out a jar of strawberry jam. He could just spoon feed it to her, surely. Fruit was good for growing people, wasn't it?

The child cried louder and wiggled in her seat, waving her arms around as if to deter him.

"You are impossible," Sherlock said. "What if I just..." He stepped closer to her and put his hands under her armpits before lifting her out of the high chair. She stared up at him with wide eyes that were John's in every way except color. The crying stopped as he held her out, a foot and a half in front of himself, and they shared a moment, sizing each other up.

It took him a moment to wrap his mind around the fact that he was holding a human being in his hands. She was practically the size of an over-grown Hummel doll, not to mention that she had cheeks that were stained from her exertion.

The child swallowed, then hiccuped, then reached out two chubby fists toward him while wiggling her legs.

"How long until you learn to speak?" he asked. "Surely you must behind in your development. You've just turned one, yes?" Part of him had been expecting some sort of answer. Of course, he wasn't so lucky.

He drew her closer to his chest hesitantly, ready for her to start screeching again at any moment. But when she curled against him and put her head on his chest just as curiously as he wrapped his arms around her, Sherlock relaxed a bit.

The peace was short lived.

Apparently, little Aurora expected something more from him now that he was coddling her. When that something didn't come, she began to fuss, pushing against his chest with stubby little fists.

"_What?_" Sherlock asked, exasperated. _Isn't it time for bed yet?_ he wondered. _Fall asleep._

Surely he had something upstairs that would put the baby to sleep until her parents got home. "Come now, Aurora," he chided, bouncing her up a bit.

He was going to kill his brother and former flatmate.

_No,_ a voice deep within his hard drive cried. _God forbid they leave her to_ you.

Sherlock doubted such a situation would ever arise. His brother knew how he felt about children; the fact that this was the first time Sherlock was alone with the baby spoke volumes to his feelings about children.

The crying started again three minutes after he picked her up.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked her again. "Do you want to be bounced?"

He began to move her up and down a bit, but that didn't help and he knew well enough that shaking a child was a bad idea. Drawing her back in to his chest, he cradled her head in his left hand and started rocking slowly.

Almost instantly, the crying ceased.

"Thank God," Sherlock mumbled. He let his chin rest on top of her curly head. She had inherited Mummy's curls the way he had, but she had Mycroft's ginger hair. It would darken in her late teens the way Mycroft's had done, but until then, it would be the color of a ripe carrot.

Unfortunate.

One pale little hand had a hold on the collar of his burgundy button-up, occasionally flexing as if the child was anxious about being in the arms of a stranger. Sherlock remembered watching John pat her while holding Aurora in the very same position, so he gave her a tentative pat on her diaper-clad bottom. When she didn't wriggle or cry, he continued the gentle tapping of his palm until he thought she might be asleep.

Her breathing was even, tiny chest rising and falling against his own.

Of course that was the moment his nose itched.

Sherlock scrunched up his face and nearly went cross-eyed with the effort not to sneeze. There was nothing he needed _less_ than for Aurora Holmes to wake up crying because his body didn't want to cooperate.

_Where am I supposed to put her? What do little people sleep in?_ She was wearing a yellow and pink one-piece cotton getup, complete with little feet. He supposed this was what she was meant to wear to bed, since Mrs. Hudson had probably been preparing her when she'd gotten the call from the hospital about her sister.

Sherlock kept patting along absentmindedly, moving in little circles through Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. He didn't see any blanket nests to put the child in, and he certainly didn't think it was a good idea to take her in the living room and set her on the couch. Children were very round; surely she'd roll right off of it if he set her down. He didn't need to explain _that_ to his brother.

"Sorry I've lost your daughter. Perhaps if you didn't breed such a circular child, she wouldn't have rolled away." Yes, that would go over well.

In fairness, Mycroft had skipped enough meals since Aurora's birth that the man had lost at least two stone. Apparently raising a child was as time-consuming as Sherlock's cases. It was John who was a bit pudgy around the middle, but if you brought it up to him, he would mutter that it was still baby weight from the pregnancy.

Sherlock was sure most of the baby weight was currently resting in his arms.

"Oh, little Rory, what am I to do with you?" _Rory_. Where did that come from? His whispered words hadn't disturbed the slumbering one-year-old and he continued to pace around.

_Rory._ He dug back in his mind, wondering if he'd ever heard John or Mycroft refer to the child by such a name. Nothing came to mind. Mrs. Hudson? No. The number of times Sherlock had encountered the child in her year of personhood numbered in the single digits.

_Hm._

__-o0o-

Mrs. Hudson wasn't answering her phone.

If you asked Mycroft or John who panicked, both of them would point fingers at the other rather than admit that he had lost his composure. In reality, they had both gone through various stages of grief while the car raced back toward Baker Street.

"I'm sure everything's fine," Mycroft had said while contacting the security team trained on the flat.

John was the first inside and he did a complete sweep of Mrs. Hudson's flat before declaring it empty and tearing up the stairs into 221B.

"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson's-" He had never thought it physically possible to skid to a halt outside of a moving vehicle, but that was exactly what he did when he saw Sherlock Holmes laying on the couch, dressed in a burgundy top and fancy trousers, sleeping with his daughter cradled against his chest.

Mycroft was barely a moment behind him and had a very similar reaction, though perhaps with more class than a noticeable skid.

"Well... that's..." Mycroft began before trailing off. "I don't know what that is."

"It's bloody adorable," John said, already reaching into his pocket. He pulled out his phone and stepped closer, trying to get a good angle for a picture. Even without Mycroft or John in it, this picture would be Christmas card gold. If he could wait that long. Which he probably couldn't.

He'd send the picture to his entire email list as soon as he got home.

The sound effect of the phone's shutter brought Sherlock out of sleep. One eye opened slowly and took John in, camera phone and all. He opened his other eye grudgingly and then rolled his blue eyes dramatically before carefully sitting up. The baby stirred with a soft sound of protest but didn't wake. He held her out to her fathers.

"I'm certain she needs a new diaper, but I don't know how it works," Sherlock whispered when John slipped his arms around the baby and slowly drew her from Sherlock. "And I don't know when she last ate. I wasn't sure what to feed her when she cried."

"Ah, I doubt you know when you last ate, either, so I'm not surprised." John chuckled quietly and shifted his weight between his feet, rocking back and forth the way Sherlock had earlier in the evening. Sherlock wondered if it was his natural stance when holding the baby. Further data needed. "How long has she been asleep?"

Sherlock checked his watch. "About 82 minutes, give or take."

"She'll probably wake up hungry on the way home," John said over his shoulder to his partner. "Do we have a bottle?"

"In the car, yes," Mycroft answered.

"Thank you for taking over," John said, stepping backwards while still rocking the baby sideways. "Though it would've been nice if you told us you had her. We could've come back sooner."

"Mrs. Hudson told me not to call you unless there was an emergency," Sherlock said. It was more matter-of-fact than the imposing speech he'd planned when he'd first left his experiments to play uncle. He'd wanted to call them right away and make them take the screaming child back to Chelsea. But Mrs. Hudson had made him promise not to interrupt their "date night." Apparently it was important for new parents to spend time together without dirty nappies in the way.

Sherlock didn't see why. He was afraid if John and Mycroft had too much alone time, it would result in more crying little people.

In the end, it hadn't been as bad as he'd expected it to be, but he now understood what he'd overheard John tell Lestrade several months back. Lestrade had asked if John thought he and Mycroft would have more children. John had replied that the pair of them woke up to the screaming every morning as if it was an alarm to take their birth control.

But in small doses, Sherlock imagined the baby wouldn't be hard to deal with. Maybe he'd learn something if he spent more time around her. Human development had always been something of an interest...

"I wouldn't mind doing this again," Sherlock said before he could think better of it. John and Mycroft wore exact mirrors of surprise, even when they couldn't see each other. "I think if I knew more about children, it might be a good study. And... Rory seems to like me." After the initial screaming wore off, anyway, but he wasn't going to tell her fathers that.

"Rory?" John asked, his face a bit sideways.

Sherlock shrugged. "I like the way it sounds."

John blinked twice at him and licked his lips before looking down at the little bundle of yellow in his arms. "Rory, then." He shifted her weight. "Well, we'd better be getting her home. If we're lucky, she'll wake up and fall back asleep in the car before we get home."

"Good night, then," Sherlock said. He turned and left the room, heading back to his experiments before the other two men had even had time to take another breath.

Mycroft and John exchanged a look of disbelief before seeing themselves out.

-o0o-

When Aurora Holmes introduced herself to her classmates for the first time at the age of five, she announced herself to be Rory Holmes. When asked what she liked to do, she had a list similar to her classmates, but different all the same: "I like glitter and playing with dolls and pretty dresses and making things go _BOOM_ in Uncle Sh'lock's kitchen."


End file.
